


Too

by hophophop



Series: Heterographs [5]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-27
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-27 17:46:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hophophop/pseuds/hophophop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"Too angry to be afraid."</em><br/>Watson in Moriarty's car, 1x24.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too

As she edged past Moriarty to slide into the back seat of the car, Joan felt a new appreciation for Sherlock’s state of mind that night with the ice pick. The layers of anger, each with a different polarity, together formed a dense intersecting fabric that acted as insulation, impervious to external stimuli and containing the— What had he said— Roiling. Yes, exactly. This…person had no regard for anyone but herself and destroyed countless lives for her own gain. Had manipulated her into being here, indirectly threatening her family. And what she had done to Sherlock— 

It wasn’t until Moriarty strode up beside her on the sidewalk that the emotion had roused. Like Sherlock seeing the pool of blood in the accountant’s apartment. The trigger. Up until then, she’d been in shock and concerned with Sherlock’s injuries (physical and psychological) and moving forward with the newly revealed puzzle pieces. She hadn’t let herself feel anything about it. About _her_. And then suddenly she was there, Irene-not-Irene, with her haute-couture makeover and assured, newly accented voice, so confident of her control of the situation. She said his name with an air of condescension aimed at them both, and Joan needed a new word to describe the feeling that surged within. 

In the car, Moriarty prattled on playing her coy game of gracious hostage-taker, and Joan used the time to press her rage into small dense blocks, inert and stable. One for the original set-up. One for crafting that persona, the only woman he thought he could love. How much of his certainty was part of Moriarty’s doing, the game she’d concocted to manipulate and incapacitate him? Never to kill, or so she’d told him, but Joan doubted any aspect of Moriarty’s story was indelibly marked.

More blocks to forge, as the midtown traffic imposed its tyranny on bus riders and chauffeured passengers alike. One for Irene’s murder scene. No, five. Or fifty. More for all the others she’d apparently directed Moran to kill. Thirty-six sacrifices for that sociopathic fantasy alone. An ocean of blocks for the pain Sherlock had endured, then obscured, and all of what followed. She almost lost control then, thinking of the night in the kitchen when she sat behind him and removed the bullet from his shoulder. What he’d told her Moriarty had said, and which parts he believed.

She had her own mental bag of legos to heft at this point, which she assembled into a white-hot wall in her mind. Whether this ride ended in an alley or beside an abandoned pier or at the Four Seasons as Moriarty claimed and was certainly dressed for, the wall would hold her upright. Its icy-hot surface held back the turbulence within, leaving her clear-headed and focused. Ready.


End file.
